One More Dance
by quitesirius
Summary: Angelina sings, Fred dances. Fred's funeral, Fred/Angelina


**A/N:** For my beloved Fred Weasley. Sad one-shot, but I wanted to do something Fred/Angelina. Working on other twin-related stuff at the moment, including some HAPPY pieces :D Reviews make me write. Enjoy, dears.

Disclaimer: The closest I come to owning Harry Potter is having a set of the books, the movies, and the Phelps twins' autographs. This means I make no profit (and spend good chunks of paychecks to get a Potter fix).

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><p>"I want fireworks and Veelas dancing," he said, smiling brightly over the edge of the top bunk, eyes glittering in the dark. "I mean, once the Veelas are done crying over the fact that they can no longer have me."<p>

George let out a soft chuckle, looking back up at Fred. Laughing too much made him a bit dizzy so soon after losing his ear. He raised his hand to his head to steady himself, even though he was lying on his back, and remembered quite clearly why they were having this conversation. Of course Fred would try to make light of it—and so would George—but as George ran his finger over the bandages, it was not so easy to forget lying on the couch in the Burrow, struggling to crack a smile for mum and Fred.

"What else?" he asked, trying to keep the mood light. He didn't want to derail into seriousness when Fred seemed to be trying to cheer him up.

The attic of Auntie Muriel's was the only place she would allow the two to sleep. Indeed, the two were not allowed to set toe in the kitchen. Though the place smelt musty and perfumed, George could not help but think back to nights spent in these very bunk beds in a pleasant way. Before the two had hit their growth spurts, these beds had been in the corner of their old room at home, affording them more space for games and inventing. Arthur had conjured up the old beds now because they were all that could fit in the attic. Both Fred and George's feet hung over the edge, but it was so like their childhood nights that neither could be bothered to cast a resizing charm.

"I want something witty on my headstone, y'know?" Fred pulled a pillow into his grasp and looked at the wall for a moment. "Something like… 'Here lies Fred Weasley, son, brother, twin, friend, and unbelievably good looking wizard with a heart of gold. Mischief Managed'."

"Big headstone," George muttered.

"Well, it'll certainly be bigger than yours since they'll be burying a one-eared mutant. I'll let you share a bit of the spotlight, though, twin. After all, maybe we'll have one headstone, eh?"

Only George would have noticed the soft crack in Fred's voice, the slight hesitation at this joke. "Fred?"

Fred looked back over the edge of the bed, grinning softly. "George?"

He hated being the one to deflate the balloon Fred was trying so desperately to keep aired in his chest, but he could not help himself. "What if… what if we do die? Or… what if… just one…?"

Fred pushed his brows together and appeared stern. He shoved the pillow away and vaulted the edge of the bed, landing so loudly on the floor that their mum tapped the ceiling of her room, the floor of the attic, and shouted "Quiet, you two!"

"Sorry, mum!" Fred shouted back, not looking sorry at all. He knelt beside George. Neither of them had changed out of their clothes from the day, and George could see Fred's bright yellow tie all but glowing in the darkness. "Georgie, you can't go thinking like that."

George swallowed and pulled himself up to a sitting position. Though still attempting to control his vertigo, he stared determinedly at his brother. He and Fred so rarely spoke seriously about anything, so rarely called each other by their childlike names for each other, that he was unsure how to proceed. He had Fred's serious attention, something that could be dangerous if not dealt with correctly, but after his recent brush with Snape, George was no longer holding back from anything.

"Freddie," he started, feeling somewhat childish and yet comforted by using this name, "we aren't the same person. We're two—"

"Different people, I know," Fred replied solemnly. "Two bodies, one mind, Georgie. I think we've learned that. But," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, "as long as we stay together, we will be alright. You've got my back and I've got yours. One of us goes down, the other will die killing the blighter who did it, eh?"

George shifted uncomfortably. "Fred… be serious, please. What if just one of us dies? What if… what if it's you?"

"Never happen," Fred shot back instantly. "Neither of us or both of us. Double, or nothing."

"Fred," George snapped. "Me losing an ear and you not losing an ear should be a clear indicator that double or nothing does not always apply to us."

Fred took a deep breath and stared hard at George in the dark. "Georgie," he said, "I know that you and I are not one person. I'm not a git. But here's the thing—I can't live without you around. I mean, it's us, Georgie. Nothing, and I mean nothing, breaks this," he said, voice seeming both shaky and stronger at once, grabbing his twin's hand. "Teammate, roommate, business partner, best friend, brother, twin. Nothing. Breaks. This." He gestured to George's bandage with the other hand. "We may not be identical anymore, but that means nothing to me, not in the grand scheme of things. Thing is, Georgie, it didn't happen to both of us and that does mean we're two different people. But I cannot and will not think about—"

"Fred," George intercepted, "You have to consider it. Just… please. We have to plan for everything, right? First rule of pranks: plan for everything."

Fred sighed, knowing he'd been beaten. "Alright. You really want to know what I want if I die and you don't?"

George nodded seriously. "Yeah."

Fred looked away, toward the small window that was speckled with stars twinkling in the night. "I do want fireworks," he said quietly. "I want a great big send off, and if people are crying, I want them to laugh. I want to be remembered as… as someone who was happy and brave and never backed down. I want to be buried in the garden at home, beneath the willow tree with all of our names carved into it, looking toward the field we play quidditch on. I want everyone there to tell a story about me, a good one, or their favorite joke I told them, and… and I want you to give my eulogy," he looked back at George, who was unblinking. "I want Angelina to sing. I always loved her voice. And I want a wake—a great big party with lots of Firewhiskey and people can wear whatever they want. I want you to keep the shop open, and keep inventing. Get married and have kids and keep living, and name all your kids after me, and live the hell out of your life, Georgie, if I don't get to. It's what I would do for you. But don't worry about it," he said, shaking the seriousness from his face, features once again lighting with mischief. "We'll be heroes, Georgie, and we'll go on a great holiday with the whole lot of us. We'll try that muggle surfing thing Hermione says they do in Australia."

George allowed himself to crack a grin. "Maybe we'll find that Nemo bloke she kept mentioning."

Angelina was not so sure she could do this. Standing before the black mass of the funeral attendees, she stood out like a neon light in her cherry red pantsuit. Red had been Fred's favorite color, and when she'd worn it to the Yule Ball he had told her she was a vision. She had brushed away the compliment at the time, owing it to Fred's overt flirtations, but now she clung to it like a life raft.

_You look like the sweetest candy in the shop,_ he'd said as they'd strode into the Great Hall, arms linked.

"F-Fred," she started, trying desperately not to lose herself to tears. She had to do this properly for him. George had made it quite clear that this was what Fred had wanted. She would do anything he wanted. "Fred," she said with more conviction, "left a request that I sing today. It's, um, it's a funny story. When we were in fourth year, we both took Muggle Studies, and our professor taught us about karaoke. Fred got right up there to sing, but he wanted a duet, so he forced me. I don't remember what we sang, because I kept laughing through all the words, but after that he always asked me to sing. I… I'll humor you, Fred, just this once."

It would not have been so hard if Molly Weasley's eyes hadn't begun to well up again.

"A-mazing Grace, how sweet the sound?" Angelina began to sing softly, her voice amplified by a spell. Her voice was angelic, wavering in the golden light of the afternoon like a heavenly beacon. "That saved a wretch like me? What once was lost, now is found… was blind, but now I see."

She could feel all eyes on her, hear the sobs began to catch in the throats of Fred's friends and family, and she closed her eyes. She pictured Fred in her mind, so beautiful and vibrant—and she imagined him listening to her, right then, perhaps sitting secretly amongst the crowd or hiding behind the willow tree. She remembered him so clearly, imagined him so vividly, that she felt she could have reached out and touched him. She recalled the exact shade of his fiery hair, could count the freckles on the bridge of his nose, could see his blue eyes twinkling in the sunshine. She could hear his laughter, echoing and tinkling like the most beautiful bells, and a sudden breeze that swept through the garden may as well have smelled of Fred for all her imagination was bringing back to life—peppermint, gun powder, and a hint of the strawberry jellybeans he more often than not had in his pocket. She could see him, just there at the back of the crowd, glowing not with angelic light but with his own inner fire that had made him so lively.

She had loved him.

Fred Weasley, who had hidden bowtruckles in her trunk, who had accidentally hit her with a bludger, who had nearly snapped her ankle whirling her across the Great Hall, who had snuck stink pellets into her shampoo.

Fred Weasley, who had picked her daffodils, who had danced every song with only her until the professors had ushered them away, who had taken her for midnight rides on his broom around the grounds, who had broken her heart when he'd flown away from school.

She would sing for him, sing her heart out, and she threw her entire soul into her words. The louder she sang, the clearer the Fred at the back of the crowd appeared, and when she hit the highest notes she could, he began to step toward her.

Fred, even as an angel, would have refused to wear white. He strode toward her in the clothes she most liked to remember him in—the checkered vest and brown slacks from the Yule Ball, with his long hair shifting in the sunlight and his grin permanently crooked on his semi-chapped lips. He was tall, towering over her as he made his way over the grass and down the aisle, his boots thudding over the blades. His hands were in his pockets, his tie and vest undone—this was how he'd looked when he'd taken her back to the common room that night, and she thought, just for a moment, that she could hear the echoes of giggling students up in their rooms as they recounted the events of the night.

And suddenly, she was not in the garden anymore, but twirling with Fred around the common room when he asked for one last dance. The fire was dying into embers and Fred laughed his enchanting laugh when they nearly tripped over a pillow that had fallen off the couch. He hummed an uneven melody, looking down at her, lips curved into an impish smile. She could feel the subtle vibration of his chest as he hummed, twirling her around the armchairs and past the tables, narrowly missing catching his trousers on fire once when he got too close to the fireplace. His humming began to diminish, his steps slowed, and soon he was standing there with her still locked in a waltz embrace. He looked down at her and smiled, eyes warm and soft in a way she was quite sure she'd never seen before.

And slowly, he leaned in and kissed her goodnight, and she knew that this was the man she wanted all of her kisses to be with.

"Ange," he whispered, pulling away. "I have to go. Goodnight, oh princess of Gryffindor."

And then, there were no more words to sing, no more music to take her away, and as suddenly as Fred had appeared, he vanished with the embers of the common room fire. For one desperate moment, she tried to keep her imagination going, to force her dream-self to run after Fred, up the stairs to his room, but the stairs were beginning to melt away, and no matter how many times she called to Fred, he did not answer.

She opened her eyes and gasped.

Fred, dressed in black robes and looking incredibly somber, was walking toward her, tears in his eyes. She felt her own eyes begin to well, and she reached out for him. Fred opened his arms for her and she ran into them, and it was only then that she remembered…

He smelt of gun powder, to be sure, but also of Fizzing Whizbees and cinnamon. His hair parted in a different place and he was missing an ear. He was slightly taller, and his chest shivered with the effort of keeping in sobs, and…

Suddenly it was all too much, and Angelina broke down into George's arms, whispering Fred's name over and over again, begging Fred to come back for one more dance.


End file.
